And his back wasn’t feeling too fucking great either.
He finally glanced away from the ray of light cast across the stairs after staring at it until his eyes burned, waiting for his Brianna to show back up, even if she was just a hallucination. He looked at the pants they’d put on him, old suit pants, thank fucking God, because he would’ve passed out if they tried to pull jeans over his thigh.
He shifted, propping up his good leg, trying like hell to take some pressure off his back and shoulder, but fuck it, nothing was helping.
Stupid fucking aspirin.
They didn’t have some goddamn oxys up there?
What the hell was wrong with the Savios?
But Tino knew drugs weren’t the Savios’ racket.
The Morettis had it covered, and it was a sure fucking bet three days into a Moretti basement, they would’ve tossed him something more interesting than aspirin to get rid of a fever.
Actually, Tino was pretty sure no one managed to live three days in a Moretti basement. This had to be a Cosa Nostra record. Seriously, what the hell was wrong with the Savios? Can’t even get the fucking job done.
Tino was done with these Northern Italian families.
Fucking done!
Give him a few guineas with some blowtorches any day of the week over a group of Northern Italians letting him politely rot to death rather than get their hands dirty.
Tino hated being filthy, and he really hated dark, stanky basements that smelled moldy and probably had fucking rats hiding somewhere.
But through the haze of pain and thirst, Tino did remember something about Nova. He noticed the pants again and started putting it together. The aspirin worked well enough to make the wheels in his brain start turning, but not nearly enough to fight the pain.
Then the door opened, and Tino looked to the ray of the light.
Boots instead of highline shoes.
Jeans instead of suit pants.
The door closed and locked, like someone above was told to stand guard, and fuck the aspirin, because Tino understood. No one wanted to see the boots and jeans when everything about Cosa Nostra was all business.
When it got messy enough for boots, shit was very deep.
The first time Tino met his zio, he’d thought Carlo was the angel of death, and his opinion had never changed. Sure, Carlo talked too much when he smoked, and he hung around with teenagers because Tino and Nova were the only two people in the Borgata who understood, but at the end of the day, he was death for the Morettis.
Anyone in Cosa Nostra could be a killer.
Most were.
But it took someone with a special brand of fucked-up luck to be an enforcer.
To handle the shit no one else wanted to handle.
To smoke out the rats.
To be mafia justice that was oftentimes unfair.
And if someone came up the family really cared about, they’d send an enforcer, because at least then they’d know it’d be fast. Maybe painless. To ease their guilt a little bit.
“What fucking bullshit,” Tino whispered, his voice scratchy as Carlo fell down on his knees in front of him. Carlo grabbed Tino’s head and pressed his forehead to Tino’s as a broken sob burst out of him. All Tino could say was, “You and Lola deserve each other. She’s got shit luck too.”
Carlo didn’t say anything.
He didn’t acknowledge anything about Lola.
He just fished in his back pocket and pulled out a small metal tool that looked like a tiny saw. He reached past Tino and messed with the handcuffs, even though he could’ve probably asked the Savios for the key, since it was clear they were fine with him being here.
But it was obviously easier for him to pick it, because he got them open fast and tossed them aside with a loud clank. Tino slid to the floor, rolled on his good side, and tried to move his arm, but his shoulder was still totally jacked up. The shock from being freed sent the pain radiating up both his arms. He wanted to cry; instead he groaned in misery. “Cazzo.”
“It’s dislocated.” Carlo touched Tino’s shoulder gently. “You want me—”
“Don’t touch it,” Tino growled at him, because he wouldn’t consider Carlo his prime choice for a doctor. “Just fucking leave it.”
“They said you were shot.” Carlo kept his hand on Tino’s shoulder. “Is it bad?”
Tino couldn’t answer him. He was still trying to keep his shit together. He hurt all over, and like it was in the shower, he wanted to fucking die.
To be done with it.
He could’ve asked for water. Instead he said, “Just fucking do it.”
Carlo was quiet for a second, before he whispered, “Nova got you a pass.”
Tino was still fighting the pain, but the aspirin did enough that he knew something wasn’t right. If Nova had gotten him the pass, then Nova would be here instead of Carlo. So he craned his neck and looked at Carlo over his shoulder. “But—”
Carlo sat and brought his legs around. He rested his chin on his knees, and for one crazy moment, Carlo looked vulnerable, letting Tino see what he must’ve been like as a kid running wild in Washington Heights.
The original Peter Pan.